


the flower field in my dreams

by gingersimp



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Confessions, Drunken Flirting, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Stoned flirting, They're stupid your honor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26250691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingersimp/pseuds/gingersimp
Summary: A whimsical peacefulness falls to the ground like a plume of dust around Clay, his body feeling light, weightless. His lungs feel sweet as if sugar had crystalized around every groove and bump causing this intoxicating breathlessness.He's in a meadow, surrounded by dandelions ready to be taken in the wind, the surroundings are so breathtaking yet he's all Clay's eyes can see.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory don't be weird, this work is about their public personas, don't harass people and all that jazz.
> 
> Also quick note, my metaphors don't make sense half of the time, I'll just pull it out of my ass and think it's profound shit at the time but in reality it's gibberish. So sorry, for that :(
> 
> Let me know what you think :) anyways, enjoy <3

It's a mellow feeling, crying in the rain at night. You stare out the window as the headlights of cars blur like an oil painting. The sounds of the city a serenade as you bring your knees to your stomach with a burning throat, calling out a silent plea for help with its sobs.

It's so calming, and he begins to feel as light as a feather, he takes another drag of the joint he's holding loosely in his hand, he feels so vividly alive, so fucking alive.

He wishes his life were like a movie at times like this, that getting high and crying in the 12th floor of a hotel he's stuck at, isn't sad, it's his coming of age moment, he chuckles at that thought, coming of age, he's almost 24.

He missed his coming of age moment.

So now he's just a sad man smoking cheap weed he procured from quite possibly the sketchiest guy who was working at the 7/11 where he got his microwave dinner meal. Maybe it was the bottle of vodka he all but slammed onto the counter, or the limpid grey bags under his eyes that screamed 'god I want to fucking die'. But with one look the checkout guy just laughed and said, _"rough night? I've got something that can take off the edge."_

While wandering to the overpriced hotel he'd preemptively booked, he couldn't help but feel so empty, so fucking lost. The plane trip had him feeling so assured, so certain and he just feels dejected now.

Weed and booze seems to help cure the lament.

He had always wanted to visit New York, the layover flight seemed like such a good idea at the time. That he'd be able to gather his jumbled thoughts and confusing feelings and pack them neatly with all of his clothes in his over stuffed suitcase.

That didn't really work out because his bag is overfilled with clothes he thought he might need. Random things and trinkets he thought he'd lose his mind without. 

There wasn't any room between his third jumper (despite it being summer) and seventh pair of socks for all of his fucking sadness.

He's doing a bit better, coughing as the smoke fills his lungs with something resembling happiness, it's good enough for him.

Clay's not answering, not that he has a reason to, for all Clay knows George is enroute with everything going according to plan, it's late and he's arriving tomorrow. So Clay doesn't have a reason to suspect anything's out of the ordinary.

Then why does he feel so crushed? Why does Clay's silence prick a needle through his heart, clumsily piercing his aorta like a novice sewer. He should try call him again, maybe in a few minutes, because right now he feels as though he can't breathe.

Even the weed isn't pacifying the anxiety prying it's way into his ribcage and rattling at the bones like a deranged drum. As it beats in time with his heart, he begins to hyperventilate.

He's not sure why, but he can't help it as his knees curl to his chest, sobbing as if he doesn't know what else to do with the air in his lungs.

Why does he feel like this?

-  
_A whimsical peacefulness falls to the ground like a plume of dust around Clay, his body feeling light, weightless. His lungs feel sweet as if sugar had crystalized around every groove and bump causing this intoxicating breathlessness._

_He's in a meadow, surrounded by dandelions ready to be taken in the wind, the surroundings are so breathtaking yet he's all Clay's eyes can see._

_A few metres away, lost in thought, hair glowing a magnificent brown in the sunlight and his pale skin flushed beautifully, his eyes are twinkling their mischievous golden pools at Clay and he swears the swarm of butterflies in his stomach multiplied tenfold._

_Clay tries to walk to him but with every step he seems further away, drifting aimlessly. Clay's eyes well with tears as he tries to reach out but he has turned around, walking off, away from him._

_"WAIT GEORGE!" Clay calls out but to no avail, a gust of wind blows through, carrying with it his voice and all the dandelion's fluff, as it launches into the air like thousands of tiny lanterns._

_Clay closes his eyes, and makes a wish._

As disgustingly clichè as it sounds, when Clay's alarm blared it's way into his dream he was less than impressed. Grunting irritably as he pulled his phone off the nightstand, swiping away the notification before scrunching up his face in confusion.

What on earth did he dream about? It's a bit hazy yet he remembers the feeling, it was like nothing he'd felt before, god it felt good, despite getting at least 14 hours of sleep (ah the peaceful life of a gamer, 2 days of no sleep and sudden catharsis in the form of a minor coma) he felt inebriated, so groggy and upset, and he has this distinct ache in his heart like he'd lost something.

Laying for a tad longer, contemplating if he could really justify closing his eyes again for a few fleeting hours, he decides against it, stretching his long limbs until he hears a serenade of cracks. The lack of light flooding into his room resonates that it's somewhere in the middle of the night and he sighs.

His phone vibrates again, the obnoxious sound giving Clay an immediate headache. He thinks for a moment though, remembering who he is, and what kind of a person he is.

He doesn't set alarms, so why was his phone ringing, and why is it ringing now? Who could be calling him this late?

Squinting at the bright light he recognises George's contact and quickly answers the call, "Hello?" 

_"Clay." George takes a deep breath that Clay picks up through the mic and Clay furrows his eyebrows._

_"George? Shouldn't you be asleep? You're in New York right?"_

George huffs static into the mouthpiece of his phone, "Yeah I know, and yeah I am, I just wanted to talk to you though." He mumbles dejectedly, Clay chuckles, a lighthearted thing that lifts the corners of George's heavy heart like how those birds from Cinderella lifted that fucking dress, god, he's really screwed isn't he?

"Cute," Clay pauses, letting out a long held sigh before continuing, "sorry for not answering right away, I was actually asleep for once, are you okay?"

George ignores the blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks, not that it matters, it's not like Clay can see him anyway. 

"I'm okay."

Is he though? Is he okay? With a fleeting glance out to the balcony he decides, yeah. He's alright.

Maybe it's the weed, or maybe it's Clay's deep voice reverberating through his brain like an endless echo.

_But he's feeling better._

Clay says something, quiet and muffled and indiscernible.

"Huh?" His own voice comes out loud and sudden, and he can't help but laugh, the giddy feeling bubbling up from his stomach, as if the bile he had grown so accustomed had been replaced with a sweet syrup, thick and sticky as it is brought to a boil.

He doesn't even notice how hard he's laughing until he feels the sensation of a stitch gnawing at his stomach, "Oh no-" he groans, "My stomach, god Clay, I'm fucking out of it."

"What's new?" The little quip would usually be received with a simple roll of the eyes, but George hunches over again, tears springing to his eyes as he struggles to find words.

God it's not that funny though, Clay is taken aback, "George, are you fucking high right now?"

George ignores the thrum of terror that shoots down his spine, he feels he's 17 again, taking a rip out of the handmade bong he crafted from a gatorade bottle and some bluetack. Scared of getting caught as he sits outside his friend's garage, giddy with excitement yet sick to his core.

"What are you, a cop?" He laughs again barely able to breathe at that point, before Clay can launch into any tangents about drug use George interjects, "Don't worry though, I'm only smoking one joint and I'm not bringing any with me, I'm not that stupid, but a very friendly gentleman offered me some in exchange for a handjob, it was too good of an offer not to take!" George almost loses his mind at his own joke, is he always this funny? Cause right now he thinks he's ready for the stage.

Clay sighs, "Oh Georgie you're a bit of a mess, innit?" Ordinarily George would scoff and make fun of Clay's impression but he's in such a state that he lets out the most childish giggle, "Just a bit love." Playing along with an endearment like no other saturating his words.

"What time is it there?" He asks absentmindedly, as if he were back in London and this were just another late night call. He's so used to the time difference that when Clay wheezes it takes him a good moment to realise why. "Oh damn, that's actually so crazy."

George can almost see Clay roll his eyes, well he can see a faceless figure rolling their eyes, it's funny, because despite it all. George really can't envision what Clay looks like; he knows he's tall, dirty blonde hair and green eyes. Yet he can't picture him at all, maybe it's because he really couldn't care less, cause nothing Clay could do could change the way he feels. Least of all how he looks.

"I can't wait to finally meet you Clay." The sincerity in his voice kind of scares him, and he reasons with himself that the nauseating fondness lacing his words is due to the weed, and not any underlying cause.

"I know George, I'm excited to see your cute face in person."

George chuckles a little, it's faint and still dripping in sweetness, "I bet you're cute."

Despite George's obvious state of delirium, Clay finds himself growing flustered, not used to the reciprocation of their friendly flirting.

"What? Uh, yeah, I'm irresistible." He settles with a scoff and George imagines a blush forming on the faceless man's… face.

They talk for hours, although it passes like a blur, the old saying stays true George supposes, _time really does fly when you are high and chatting to the one you like_ , is that the quote? _George isn't sure but it feels right._

_George eventually finishes the joint, laughing wildly as Clay yells in protest as he throws it off of the balcony "I have to destroy the evidence Clay!" Laughter, so much laughter, "You're a dirty criminal George, a dirty fucking mongrel!"_

_The bottle of vodka he bought doesn't go to waste, sipping it out of a mug like he has to all together, at one point he adds a teabag, "For extra flavour Dream!" And Clay laughs harder than he previously thought possible._

It reaches 3am and George begins to falter, jetlag and his fucked up sleeping schedule going hand in hand as he feels his eyes get heavier every time he blinks, "Dream, you should, visit me tonight…" he mumbles, _barely forming a coherent thought, let alone sentence._ Clay hums in response, "What do you mean Georgie?"

"Visit me in my dreams tonight Clay, I'm impatient, I just want to see you."

Clay finds his mind drifting back to that field, he wonders, maybe, just maybe, if George could dream of that place too. Endless flowers and possibilities, heart full of the most intoxicating feeling.

He wonders if it would be his golden hair glowing in the sun that sends a shiver down George's spine.

During this moment of reverie Clay is silent, he can hear George shuffling around on the other side and he finds himself smiling.

As George clambers into bed he whispers quietly, oh so quietly, "Hey Clay, Dream, Dreamy poo," he pauses, gathering his thoughts as they refuse to unscramble, Clay says in an equally small voice, "Yeah?"

"I love you." The words are so fragile, so gentle as they hang in the night air and Clay responds with a grin

"Goodnight George, I love you too, I'll see you soon," Clay pauses to lick his dry lips, eyes staring at the ceiling as the crimson butterflies in his stomach paint his cheeks to match, "in our dreams."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapters a bit shorter cause I'm lazy as fuck, also, let me know if the drug thing caught you off guard, idk I feel like weed was just the right aesthetic there but I could be wrong. Let me know if it made you uncomfortable and I can edit it out. 
> 
> But yeah, let me know what you think :)

The clean stark smell of crisp hotel sheets, the comforting whirring of the air conditioner unit working diligently and the faint murmuring from a random shopping channel on the tv. It serves as a devilish concoction to his foggy brain.

He was deliciously delirious right now, it was almost like in that moment nothing mattered, nothing really existed. He was content simply breathing deep, taking in the city's atmosphere.

Something about the city is so exhilarating, you feel like you're a part of something, the feeling as you walk down a bustling street, everyone so absorbed in their own lives, it's so refreshing.

He can almost forget about everything clinging to the walls of his mind, every worry, every thought. But with a deep unrelenting groan and a stretch that releases an onslaught of cracks, he decides he better get up and ready for his flight.

It's a strange thing, feeling so strongly for someone you've never met, not being able to put a face to the name and such but Clay just makes it so easy and George just thinks god he's so easy to love.

Maybe that's why he's so hesitant to speak his feelings, because he fears that he'll scare it away. That the feeling that comes so naturally could blow away in the wind, like a dandelion caught by the breeze.

And he doesn't want to stop the feeling, it's inebriating, isn't it? Being in love with someone. It's like every drop of their voice fills you with warmth, saturating your heart like a trifle in brandy. Syrup dripping from your tongue as you reply, cheeks feverish with fluster amongst other things.

In his stomach, the most glorious feeling, butterflies, fluttering with every comment, every laugh and he just feels so whole when he's with Clay.

Like they're meant to be.

Even the fear of rejection looming its ugly head can't compete with the love George feels, it's too pure, so untainted and fucking youthful, god he feels like a teenager again, and it feels so fucking good.

And he'll see him soon.

You know what they say, distance makes the heart grow fonder.

George thinks he has quite possibly the fondest heart.

So he ignores the disgusting taste in his mouth, stale vodka isn't the greatest thing. He ignores the dull pang of pain in his head, and swings his legs off of the side of the bed, using the momentum to will himself to stand on his shaking limbs.

God he feels like shit, but the excitement gnawing at his bones like an excited puppy overwhelms his senses, and he can't help the smile that finds its way onto his cracked lips.

He's meeting Clay today, he's going to see him and finally put a fucking face to that goddamn laugh.

There's a few hours until his flight and the airport is quite close, so George decides he should have more than enough time for a good shower, to wash away the muck of last night's poor choices.

Why do hotel bathrooms always have an air of luxury? Even the complimentary soaps seem so sophisticated, "Bergamot and musk? What the fuck." He murmurs under his breath, ditching his 2 n 1 with a careless toss onto the bed before stepping back into the bathroom.

He tries to calm his racing nerves with the warm embrace of a hot shower.

With a deep sigh he opens his eyes, water droplets falling from his dark eyelashes as he lets the feeling wash over him.

He can do this.

-

Okay maybe he can't. His relinquished spirit flickers like a weak flame as he rifles through his suitcase for the billionth time. He still can't find the right thing to wear. He wants to be comfortable on the flight, but he still needs to be presentable for when Clay picks him up.

George would usually throw on whatever, but there's this feeling spreading in his stomach like a drop of ink in a cup of water and he can't help but gag a little at how nervous he is.

He quickly walks to the kitchen, proceeding to dry heave for a good minute or so as his throat burns.

Grabbing a random cup from one of the cupboards George fills it with the tepid tap water. He glances back over at the half empty bottle of smirnoff and grimaces, what a shame, he'll have to tip it down the drain before he leaves.

The bitterness rests at the back of his throat and George is certain that if he'd eaten anything he would have vomited sequentially after.

The familiar bile is almost comforting in a way, he supposes he'd been feeling good for a bit too long. Although as he takes a mouthful of water, he wishes to wash it back down his gullet as it threatens to spill.

Standing at the sink gingerly holding the cup in his fingertips, he feels, okay.

Last night didn't start great, but waking up, despite the mischievous dread pulling at his heart strings, it is nothing compared to the inferno of excitement building in his chest.

And he grins, to himself, alone in the hotel, standing in the neat porcelain kitchen as he leans back against the counter.

He shakes his head a little, something about the city.

The change of scenery is so refreshing, from the bustling stone pavements of London to the stained concrete sidewalks of New York's bones.

It shouldn't be that different, they're both city's afterall, but the disconnect between him and the people outside is so, thrilling.

He can hear people outside amongst the noises that accompany the day.

He empties the cup in his hand before stacking the few dishes he used beside the sink and he grabs the vodka, unscrewing the cap before watching as it flows down the sink.

He discards the empty bottle in the bin and takes a deep breath. Yeah, he's okay.

As he leaves the kitchen to get dressed and grab his things from the bedroom, he takes one last fleeting look out the balcony window and a sense of calmness drifts over him despite the apparent business outside.

He eventually settles for a random hoodie and some random jeans, he presumes that will have to do.

Double checking every part of the bedroom for the last time. He checks the alarm clock beside the bed, making note of the time, if he leaves now he'll have at least half an hour to wander the airport, maybe he'll bring Clay a souvenir.

He shrugs off the idea, chastising himself because, why the fuck would Clay want a souvenir from somewhere he's probably been? Although he doesn't completely dismiss it, filing it away in back of his mind.

He hoists his backpack onto his shoulders and drags his suitcase out the door.

Well there's no turning back now.


End file.
